No Light, No Light (Not A Glimmer Of Light)
by Celesteennui
Summary: Oil and water, fire and ice, chickens and boots; all of these things mix far better than Sparrow does with Reaver. Somehow though, she's tied to him, by fate as well as choice. And, as always, the choices that she makes come with repercussions that aren't solely her own to bear. Sparrow/Reaver with Reaver as the biological father to Logan and the Princess/Hero of Brightwall.
1. Never Knew Daylight Could Be So Violent

**Disclaimer: **Microsoft and Lionhead own it, not me, I'm not being paid.

* * *

**1. **

Sparrow is Good, true. But Pure? Not so much.

She likes helping people and she does always strive to do the right thing but pure isn't what she'd describe herself as. Pure is a word that brings to mind people who are afraid of so much as a wink, people who back away at the sight of too much skin. Sparrow has not been anything near to pure since she was an infant. Desires, lustful thoughts, she has those and readily gives into them; after all, what's the point of being alive if you aren't going to live?

Still, she should know better than to sleep with Reaver.

He's hard to resist, though, especially after a few drinks. His laugh rakes her backbone in the most delicious way. Plus, it's been ages since she had someone and even Heroes have needs.

Gods, Alex has been gone nearly eight years…

It's a fight between them, as very nearly every exchange has been.

Reaver's teeth skim her neck; in return, Sparrow claws his back. He shrieks, high-pitched as a noblewoman, when her nails sink into the flesh of his backside. He also thrusts harder, managing to find that spot that makes her see stars when he does. Each time that they kiss, there's blood, coppery and sweet. Reaver tastes like a summer morning in Bowerstone Cemetery, like loss liberally peppered with sunshine.

She loses count of how many times they have at one another. Sparrow recalls her legs being over his shoulders, gripping the headboard, and burying her face into the pillows multiple times. Her wrists are bruised from being held above her head and her thighs are red from the friction created by the frantic work of Reaver's hips locked in their vice. Purple-red marks that perfectly match Sparrow's fingers ring his neck and he'll carry the imprint of her teeth on his left shoulder blade for weeks.

It's dirty, and wrong, and absolute bliss. She leaves at dawn before he wakes—or at least before she _thinks_ he's awake. Reaver's eyes stay shut and he makes no move or sound when Sparrow disentangles herself to grab her clothes. Exiting his quarters, she is sore but highly satisfied and, while far from being happy she would go so far as to say that she is content. For now at least.

She will also call herself an idiot later on for thinking that it could remain an isolated incident.

**2. **

Reaver might be the Hero of Skill, but that doesn't mean Sparrow can't be quick enough to get the drop on him just once. He loses his fancy feathered hat to the tiny crossbow that she keeps at her waist when he shows up at the Bowerstone Gala six years later. Luckily, he approaches her in one of the secluded sections of the garden so she doesn't terrify any citizens when she pegs said hat.

"Well, you could simply have asked me to leave you know," he says raising an eyebrow, grinning like a demon.

_Like_, that's a watered down comparison. And probably an insult to demons.

"I wouldn't think that I should need to," she replies. Out comes her pistol. "Garth wrote me about your little tavern adventure. Must I really explain why that makes you persona non grata?"

He shrugs, not put off in the slightest. "I didn't think you'd particularly care. You two were never close. And, may I remind you: I did not kill him." Picking up his hat, Reaver pulls the little bolt from it, removing one of the big feathers in the process. _That _makes him pout. "Ugh. I stole this from a Courtesan in the Eastern Kingdom; it's one of a kind."

"Was," Sparrow corrects. She hasn't lowered her pistol. "What do you want, Reaver?"

Laughing, he puts his hat back on, sans feather, and strolls closer. "Oh, I was only in the neighborhood. One Hero checking up on another. Is that not allowed?"

Another laugh comes at her deadpan stare. He steps forward, he's not particularly quick, but he still manages to sidestep her pistol. Sparrow's pulse hammers but not from fear. This close she can smell him, smoke, cloves, and perfume that was probably mixed for a woman. The scent brings back every sensation from the night they shared so long ago and desire all but slams her center.

As if he smells that, his grin deepens. Those even white teeth gleam; a predator baring fangs to prey. Sparrow is no lamb waiting for slaughter but she's certainly paralyzed as one might be. She notices that his gloves are fingerless, black satin stitched with scarlet as two knuckles glide down her temple and jaw then lightly pinch her chin.

"Favor me with a dance?" It isn't really a question.

She also knows that she made up her mind about the second she saw him, conscious of it though she wasn't.

Returning the pistol to its holster that's sewn into her bodice, Sparrow holds her free hand out to Reaver. He takes it, feigning the perfect gentleman, and pulling her just flush enough to jab propriety.

Hammer would smack her in the head. Gods, Sparrow does miss her best friend.

Hammer is not there, however, so she ignores all good sense. She dances most of the night with Reaver then accompanies him to the lavish rooms he's taken at the inn. Two days are lost in his sheets and arms before Sparrow's sense of duty kicks in and she extracts herself, again leaving while Reaver appears to be fast asleep.

**3. **

They see each other frequently enough for some time after that; three years give or take. Every few weeks Reaver shows up in her manse, making the servants nervous. Honestly, Sparrow prefers it that way; the less fond that her employees are of Reaver; the more likely they are to stay out of his way and not to question her about him.

She doesn't ask why he's staying around, because, honestly, she would just rather not know. Morality isn't Reaver's forte and Sparrow has enough to deal with as more and more of Albion turns to her for leadership.

He's great stress-relief, really. Most of the time.

"So who is this Turner fellow?" he asks one night/very early morning as they enjoy the new sunken floor tub she's had installed in her private bath.

Sparrow doesn't open her eyes; for a wiry fellow, Reaver has a very comfortable chest. She does, however, flick a handful of water into his face. "Stop reading my letters."

"Stop leaving them out in the open," he counters.

"In my desk is _not_ out 'the open', Reaver."

"It is when it isn't a locked one." Soap bubbles land on her nose, a retaliation. Sparrow still doesn't open her eyes; instead, she turns her head and wipes the residue away on his collarbone. "And don't deflect, who is he?"

"Not that it concerns you, but he's looking for help with getting things under control around here," Sparrow tells him. "Say what you will about Lucien, but the crazy, murdering bastard _was_ a figurehead. People go a little off when there's no one to at least feign a semblance of order."

"Ah," Reaver says. "So you're making a bid for the crown. Good show."

She opens her eyes when he says that. He's smirking, the glass of wine he carried in from her bedroom dangling from his fingers.

"That's jumping the gun a bit, don't you think?" She steals the glass, ignoring the scowl tossed her way, and takes a sip before handing it back.

"Well, as many guns as you've jumped, both figurative and in front of—"

"Ha. Ha."

"—not really, no." His smirk deepens and he drains last of the wine. "Don't take offense; you'd be decent at it. You're not terribly stupid for a goody-two-shoes, and the common folk just eat the 'Hero' bit up. It's a fairly sound notion."

Sparrow shakes her head. "I'm _of_ the common folk. The nobility wouldn't have it."

"Then you make them accept it," he says. There's no humor in his blue eyes, no smile on his face, just an intense, honest light. How many have seen this look and survived? It seems the kind that would precede a ship boarding or a village burning.

It doesn't frighten Sparrow, though it probably should. As old as Reaver is, he _would_ know a thing or two about power. Just because his methods differ from hers doesn't invalidate them. In theory, anyway. Practice is another matter.

Sparrow resumes her previous position and shuts her eyes. "Unless there's a lot more wine, I'm not in the mood to discuss politics, Reaver."

"Of course, my dear, of course."

She'll look back on the mocking lilt of his words later, when Walter Beckett, Solomon Turner, and John Swift have all but convinced her that her head was made for a crown, and wonder if Reaver has been back to the Spire. He certainly acts as if her ascension was laid out in cards.

**4. **

It happens on what should be an uneventful rendezvous in the northern countryside. She, Walter, and Swift are on their way to deal with a Hobbe problem that Lady Martin has had as well as to discuss her possible support. Only it turns out there is no Hobbe problem and support is the last thing from Lady Martin that Sparrow shall have. At least that's what she gathers from the ambush waiting for them just inside the boundary of Martin's lands.

The battle itself is no problem. They defeat the lady's guards and hired thugs soundly, with no casualties to their side. Or at that was what Sparrow thought at first. When the ache that she has from a smart kick to her belly doesn't abate and blood starts pooling in her trousers, however, she has to rethink that.

That's how she finds out she was pregnant.

Well, she finds out later; she collapses shortly after all of the blood comes. There are spotty moments in between falling to the ground in that field and true consciousness days later. Poor little Jasper fretting and pressing compresses to her forehead. Arguing followed by pistol-fire. The soothing voice of a doctor and Walter's grumbling.

Just over a month, the doctor tells her when she's come to. She can still have children but there was regrettably nothing he could do to save this one.

In the numbness that follows being told she carried then lost a life before she even knew about it, Sparrow can't say that she's overly disappointed. She is not ready for that kind of responsibility. One day, in the not-too-far-removed future, she wants it, she's sure. When she does decide to have children she wants to be the kind of mother who is around, who teaches, who dries tears, and chases nightmares away. Before she can be that, she has a crown to forge.

She intends to start by putting Elmira Martin's head on a pike. That first step gets truncated, however, when no one can find the miserable bitch. Her whole household has gone on the run, it seems; her manse is vacant when Sparrow leads her troops to storm it and no one can find her.

That is her first impression, at least. Then, as she searches the master bedroom, she finds the truth. A fortune card, a bloody, cracked mirror with a rose. The Thief has beaten her here.

**5. **

Albion is all but under Sparrow's belt the next time that she and Reaver meet. Eight years later, all that stands between her and her coronation is her marriage to Lord Thomas Danforth. Thomas, a very likable and handsome fellow, comes from one of Albion's oldest bloodlines. Not as old as her Archon bloodline of course, but Sparrow keeps that to herself. It will stop the old cows from fussing too much if they're allowed to believe one of theirs holds her ear.

Fate deems it appropriate that Reaver returns on her wedding day.

"I heard it was happening but I scarce believed it true. The Hero of Bowerstone is to marry. Enchanting."

What's most surprising to Sparrow is that she isn't even startled by him. Eight years and she is _still_ used to Reaver popping up whenever he wants, wherever he wants, even including her dressing room as she prepares for the wedding ceremony. She does, however, throw a scowl his way through her vanity mirror. She's too busy arranging her hair to turn and do it to his face.

"If you killed Jasper or any of my guards to get in, you're going to spend the rest of your immortal life missing some very pleasurable but non-vital pieces."

"Perish the thought," he says. "I would never sully your special day with blood. Not unless you asked."

"Hmm…" She pins an errant curl back.

"You know, most queens have maids for that sort of thing," he says. Sparrow notices him idling closer in the rear of the mirror's reflection. "Especially for impressive events."

"How handy it is that I'm not a queen yet." She turns just as he steps into the circle of her personal space.

He looks younger than he did eight years ago; Lady Martin's household positively glutted the Shadow Court, no doubt, and will for some time. She's not sorry about that, not like she should be.

Hands are sliding along her thighs, rucking up the lacy hem of her slip. He hasn't taken his gloves off; the silk feels delicious. Still, she has to protest just on principle.

"What happened to not sullying the day?" Sparrow asks even as she slides her arms around Reaver's neck.

"With blood," he reminds her. "Sullying the bride herself is another matter entirely." In one smooth motion, he's lifted her onto the vanity's edge tugged her smallclothes out of the way. Two-hundred years or so leaves plenty of time to perfect things and Sparrow, despite her best efforts is impressed by it. And aroused.

Their tryst is a quick one, it has to be given that she's so shortly to be married, but that doesn't make it any less enjoyable. Reaver helps her to right herself afterward, even lacing up her gown and painting her face. He also offers Sparrow something "borrowed" for the occasion, a lovely white-gold and sapphire ring with the initials E.L.M. engraved in delicate cursive along the sides.

She takes the trophy and dances with Reaver three times during the reception. He never asks for it to be returned.

**6. **

While Sparrow may not be in love with her husband, she does love him as a friend and he isn't bad in bed. He manages her household well, keeping the castle in order while she takes care of business as it is. Most importantly, Thomas never gets in her way, with politics, policy, or personal affairs. For that courtesy alone, Sparrow never beds Reaver in the castle, though she does assign Thomas' mistress, a delightful lady called Marcella, the quarters adjacent to his.

It's a decision that seems to irritate Reaver, probably because it means he's never there to be invited to Marcella's bed along with her and Thomas. To make it up to him, Sparrow invites along with her to Brightwall.

"This is a waste of coin," he says for the thousandth time one night, as she budgets the construction for her new academy. The scorn on his pretty face would frighten others, to be sure, Sparrow, however smiles into her glass of wine, and continues making notes. "What is there to be gained from _giving_ such a wealth away?"

She shrugs, delighting in the way it makes him flush. "I like books. I like learning. I like sharing. If Albion's going to move forward, education is the way to do it. And if I haven't mentioned it already: _I like it_."

"Well, you like stupid things," he grouses.

"Fair point. I keep you around after all."

He actually sputters at that and Sparrow can't stop herself from giggling.

Reaver glowers and in an eye-blink, he's crossed the room. Sparrow isn't frightened by the quiet rage boiling in his too-blue eyes, but it does startle her. Enough so that she drops her pen. It's just as well because Reaver has grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the arms of her chair.

"I am not _kept_." Each word comes with the edge of a razor. "I am Reaver, not a puppy running at your heels. You would do well to remember that." She can feel the power of his Hero's blood. It sings under is skin, calling out to her.

Never one to back down from a challenge, Sparrow meets him. Her very skin hums as the blue markings and halo of light, normally dormant, burst forth. To his credit, Reaver does not back away though she _does_ note the subtle clench of his throat muscles, an imperceptible thing to untrained eyes.

"And _you_," she counters, "forget you're not the only Archon-Child in this room. Release me before I make you."

The following second lasts an eternity. It is a grand standoff between titans, invisible yet so loud it can be tasted. There are only two ways that it can end. Because death would be inconvenient for the both of them, it's sex.

They struggle for dominance, both always coming up just too short to claim the match. The battle rages all over her study, across her floor and its desk, all the way to her bedroom. Her sheets are a warzone, tainted with Heroes' blood (amongst other things).

This time it's Reaver who leaves without a word or notice while Sparrow sleeps. The sensible bit of her says that it's good; that she should hope that this has driven him off. The less sensible bits lament his withdrawal. Queenly duties occupy her time well enough though, that Sparrow doesn't even realize that she missed him until he returns two years later.

**7. **

Plague steals into the countryside that fall after Reaver runs off, a kind of illness that makes the blood seep into the victim's belly to be thrown up in fits. Pale Fever, the common folk call it. It afflicts many of Sparrow's people; Walter, Solomon, and Thomas amongst them, but takes few lives. Her consort is, unfortunately, one of the casualties.

Their marriage was not built upon romance but Sparrow had depended on her husband for much. The life of a noble, even after so long on the throne is still a foreign one to her. Leading is different from ruling and that is where she had valued her husband's advice most dearly.

Luckily, she still has Marcella to aid her. On top of being Thomas' mistress and Sparrow's friend, the other woman was also the late Prince Consort's right hand. She steps into Thomas' shoes gracefully, keeping the household affairs, ceremonies, and all of the like neatly in order despite her grief, or perhaps because of it. Sparrow returns her loyalty with the royal consort's crown which Marcella accepts.

It is a union both like and unlike her first royal coupling. The marriage to Marcella dissatisfies most of the old blood aristocrats but after a duel in which mouthy Lord Silsbee loses an eye, things go quiet. Aside from that bump, it's easier, simpler. They both know what to expect with one another and the friendship they'd nurtured while Thomas lived deepens.

Only the question of children lingers at the back of Sparrow's mind. It's a question put aside easily, though; she's still not ready. Not today, but a soon tomorrow perhaps.

**8. **

Reaver, appropriately enough, returns during a storm.

Sparrow sleeps alone in her rooms; Marcella and she are intimate on occasion but they both prefer the comfort and familiarity of their own beds. If Thorne were still alive, she would have pegged him the second he slithered through the door. Thorne is gone, however, just like Rose, mother, and father, so the thunder has impeded Sparrow's sense of hearing.

She wakes when he's but a few feet from the bed. Her eyes open, spine a-tingle, to a black figure illuminated only from the dim embers of her hearth behind it. Instinct calls a Time Stop spell to her fingers. She throws this and rolls from the bed, putting it between her and her potential assassin. A flintlock and sword rest nearby, Sparrow grabs both, aiming the former while producing fire so that her shot will be clear.

Reaver looks back at her, unimpressed.

Sparrow very nearly drops her pistol. "Reaver? What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

His usual wit doesn't come. Instead, he continues to stares at her, a strange intensity to his blue eyes. He's soaked, she notices, dripping puddles onto her floor.

Had he come to the palace on foot? In a bloody storm, even? _Why_ would he do that?

Before she can demand any more, he's crossed the distance between them. Sparrow very nearly shoots him; only a curious tremor racing up and down her spine stops her finger. She stays still, watching him shrug off his gloves and coat before his cold, damp hands take her face between them.

He looks at her hard, as if there is something on her face, some secret hiding in her skin. Then, just as Sparrow is considering stopping time and knocking him out, he kisses her. Reaver tastes of sea salt over the usual unique spice of him and even with half-frozen lips, he still burns her.

They race and stumble to disrobe him before they make it back to the bed. Flesh to flesh, it takes some time to warm Reaver up, but Sparrow is nothing if not persistent. Being gifted with Will and pyromancy help. He is strangely quiet during the night; still eager and receptive he says little and smothers most of the cries that she makes with kisses.

She never asks Reaver why he came back and he never offers an answer. He's there in the morning, though, and steadily for some years to come. Bowerstone and she are what he's chosen. For the time being anyway.

A far more important thing than Reaver's return comes from that stormy night, however; the conception of her firstborn.


	2. Revelations In The Light Of Day

**Disclaimer:** I don't own a damn thing and I'm not getting paid. I'm broke. Sue me only if you're going to take my student loans with my soul.

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much to Raven and Sadie 3 for your reviews, they were greatly appreciated!

* * *

**1.**

On the bright, May morning that her physician delivers the news that she is two months full with-child, Sparrow debates whether or not she will tell Reaver. He's going to find out eventually of course, he isn't a fool. A self-serving, lecherous, and amoral crack-shot, yes, but _not_ a fool.

Lying is on the table though. She probably ought to. Whatever connection they have, Reaver _isn't_ to be trusted. Sparrow owes the fragile life inside of her all of the protection that she can muster. That's a hard enough job without adding in a father who plays chess with the Shadow Court.

In the end, Sparrow settles this internal debate the way she always does; a coin toss. Heads she's honest, tails she cements Reaver in a sarcophagus and slips it into a Wraithmarsh bog hole.

"I'm pregnant." She aims those words at him like an arrow the second that he enters her study that evening.

In going on ten years, Sparrow has yet to see Reaver taken aback. This news accomplishes such and if nothing else comes from this night, she gets to relish that. He looks positively stupid when he's surprised too, all wide-eyed, and unbalanced. It's a face that disappears in breath, replaced with furrowed brows and a pursed mouth.

"Should I ask if you're sure?"

"If it will make you feel better go ahead." Her hand instinctively reaches for the brandy snifter sitting beside her desk, recoiling after she remembers. Seven months is looking exceptionally longer now.

Reaver, bastard that he is, takes it and makes a show of pouring himself some. She notes the tense way he holds the crystal, though. Like he's forgotten how to grip. He swallows down the whole—generous—glass.

"Are you going to keep it?" he asks after a moment, tone of voice just a shade quieter than it normally carries.

Sparrow makes sure that her pistol and sword are within reach on her desk as she perches on its edge. She also calls forth the beginnings of a Time Stop to her fingertips. "I am. I'm ready to be a mother and Albion needs an heir."

He nods, eyes intent on the empty glass between his fingertips. Sparrow remains ready to fight.

"You don't expect me to play house and raise the thing with you, do you?" He finally raises his eyes to hers. The usual snide tone is back. Sparrow can work with that.

"Neither expected nor wanted," she assures him. "For starters I _am _already married and, no offense—well, all right, plenty of offense. But you're not exactly child-rearing material, Reaver."

That gets a chuckle. "No, I am not. I'm far better, I think, at the creating part."

"That I won't disagree with."

He's smirking now, a far more familiar glint in his eye as he sets down the brandy glass. Sauntering over to where she sits on her desk, Reaver places both palms flat on either side of her hips. Without shame, he looks down pointedly at her light silk shirt, examining her still flat belly and only slightly swollen breasts.

"Speaking of procreation, how long until we are no longer allowed to mimic it?" He tugs upon the already loose laces, revealing an inch more of cleavage.

"Books say that it isn't dangerous until towards the very end," she tells him, leaning non-too subtly forward.

"Ah, good news then." He tugs her off the desk's edge; Sparrow may even dare to say that he's being gentle. His arm slides over the small of her back, urging her toward the stairs to her bedroom. "Come, Majesty, let's make use of your limberness while you still have it."

**2.**

"This is going to sound absolutely stupid, but you were made to be pregnant," Marcella says one early evening as they go over the ever developing nursery.

Sparrow laughs, putting down the velveteen frog she'd been examining. "Well, it's certainly something I don't know I can agree with." She rubs her protruding belly; it feels longer than five months. Morning sickness has passed but she aches deep in her bones and finds herself weeping at strange moments.

"It's the way you look, goose," Marcella says, throwing a pillow at her. "All serene and aglow with life."

Sparrow raises an eyebrow. _She_ certainly doesn't feel serene, what she feels is bloated, miserable, and ugly. Uglier still in the same room as her consort. Marcella is an uncommonly beautiful woman, even pushing forty. Long, silky strawberry hair, enormous green-blue eyes, and a figure that would—and has—made sculptors weep. Most think one so pretty must be fragile. Sparrow knows how untrue that really is; her wife has a mind sharper than any blade in the armory, part of why she married her.

"I think that you need glasses, Marcie," she counters tossing the pillow right back. "But I do thank you. Perhaps you can carry the next one and glow a bit yourself?"

Marcella doesn't miss a beat. "No thank you, Majesty, it's your bloodline. _You_ can carry it on just fine. Pun intended."

Sparrow laughs it off and continues puttering about; making lists for the cadre of nannies and decorators that her dear wife has already employed. After Marcella leaves, however—it's so wonderful to have a friend and partner to dump all of the responsibility of court on—Sparrow finds herself inspecting her reflection in the freshly scrubbed windows.

Heroes, she's found both by living and by rare visits from Hammer, do not age quite so fast. Little about her face is different at sixty than it was at twenty-eight, when she defeated Lucien. Her black hair is untouched by any grayness but that's all that _she_ would deign to call attractive about herself. Pregnancy has bloated her and her brown eyes are ringed with the kind of bruises that accompany sleeplessness.

There's nothing new here. Or so, she decides, at first.

Under the sun, Lady Martin's ring glints. She's taken to wearing it on a long chain now that her fingers are swollen. It brushes the back of her hand which Sparrow occupies rubbing across the distended waist of her cream silk dress.

Serene and aglow, perhaps not. Content with this choice, this new path in life she's walking? Very much so.

**3.**

Deep snows cover Albion when Sparrow's son comes into the world. Birth was taxing, to say the least, but she expected that. And it's more than worth it when Doctor Alma places the screaming, slimy, pink, beautiful thing that is her first child in her arms.

The good doctor gives her a potion for sleep after Jasper and Marcella whisk the baby away to be cleaned. As exhausted as she is, Sparrow doesn't think it's necessary but still appreciates it. At dawn, she brought her son into the world; it's just before dawn again when she opens her eyes.

She's been bathed, her sheets changed, hair combed and braided. Water sits within hand's reach as does her son's gilded bassinette. The baby, however, is not in it; he's in Reaver's arms.

Looking down at the squishy bundle in blue silk, mild curiosity flits across his face. A nod is dipped in Sparrow's direction though he doesn't look at her. "The whole kingdom is drunk over this toothless little thing. I'm trying to see what's so special but I haven't quite caught on."

Sparrow chuckles; considering Reaver those words are downright _sweet_. "He's hope, silly." She shifts, not ready yet to sit up; her bed is so very comfortable. "You're holding Albion's future. He'll be her king one day."

Reaver snorts. "Well, if _this_ is where things are going, I must say that I'm not all that impressed." She laughs again and while she does, Reaver holds the boy toward her. She accepts, leaning to the side so she can recline and look at him. Weak as a kitten Sparrow may not be, but tiredness still gnaws her bones.

Her son, who had been sleeping just as she had, stirs; little arms and legs wriggling. His tiny mouth pops open in a yawn and Sparrow can't tell whether her heart is breaking or growing.

After having months to get used to it, she still doesn't feel fully prepared to absorb all of this. That she's a mother; that this new, miniscule human being came from her and now depends on her for every single thing. That her heart and soul could be owned by someone she's really just met.

"Have you picked a name yet?" Reaver asks.

She shakes her head, intent on stroking the baby's cheek. It's the softest thing she's ever felt. "No. Well, I made a few lists but I haven't settled on anything." Honestly, she doesn't care about names; the important thing is the baby himself. Marcella can pick from a hat for all it matters to Sparrow. "Besides, I hear that it's bad luck to—"

"—to name a baby before it's been in the world three days." He finishes for her, smirking. She only gawks a moment; centuries between them though there may be, he comes from the country as well. Sparrow imagines that the old women of Oakvale murmured it just as often as their contemporaries in today's rural Albion still do.

Reaver cocks his head to the side, looking at the baby. Were it anyone else, Sparrow might say it was warm.

He stands after a few moments of this. He's leaving, she can tell by the line of his shoulders. A part of her wishes that he would not but the rest of her knows it's for the best. For all that she enjoys certain things about him, Reaver is not and never will be any sort of father to this child. Which is just as well, she plans on loving the boy more than he'll probably be able to stand. As will Marcella, Walter, Jasper, and nearly all of Albion.

He kisses her quickly, but not so quickly that it feels like a goodbye, before making his way to the door. Pausing with his fingertips on the curved brass handle, he looks back at her—at _them_, and once again, Sparrow is startled by how almost human he appears, if only for a second.

"If 'Logan' isn't already on the list I recommend it."

**4.**

Wanderlust is something that Sparrow never thought that she would shake. She took the throne and united Albion because it was the right thing to do, not because she particularly wanted it. At every opportunity over the last twenty years she's escaped the suffocating weight of the crown, running off to fight balverines, tend to the academy, any little thing, really.

Once she has Logan, there's almost no getting her to leave. She doesn't want to miss a single thing; not one single cry, burble, or feeding. For so long she had no one and now she has, well, _everything_. And she refuses to give that up.

"You might just be the only queen in history who ever changed nappies," Marcella informs her one quiet morning as they sit in the nursery with Logan, posing for a portrait of the royal family. They've taken a break since Logan's gotten fussy and Sparrow changes him while the opportunity is present.

"I'm the only queen in history who's probably done a lot of things," she says while making ridiculous faces down at the baby. Logan hardly ever cries and even at half-a-year, there's a seriousness to his big brown eyes that Sparrow already knows will never leave him.

Still, he smiles when his mama makes faces at him.

"True enough," Marcella agrees. "You are going to have to give it rest this evening, though. You've been away from court too long. Tonight Princess Consort _and_ Queen of Albion will be presiding over dinner with the aristocracy."

The face that Sparrow is in the middle of making, turns on her wife. It's not intimidating at all, as demonstrated by Marcella's laugh. _Or_ effective at swaying her right hand.

Plucking Logan from her arms, Marcella sticks out her tongue. She's never wanted any children of her own but she truly does love Logan, no one would ever doubt that. "Tell your mummy, darling:" Her voice shifts to a ludicrous high-pitch and she bounces the baby along with each word as if he were a puppet. "_Mummy, you absolutely have to get back to running the country! Think about the legacy you're leaving me! For me, Mummy, for me!_"

"You're ridiculous!" she laughs. "But fine. You're right—_Logan_." They return to the portrait chairs and Sparrow swipes her son back. "I'll get back to enduring court. For you."

Marcella leans in to kiss her cheek then ducks down, as if to hide behind Logan. "_Thank you, Mummy!_"

She swats Marcella's arm, giggling. "Stop that!"

**5.**

Neither Reaver's visits nor their affair, have stopped in the sixteen months or so that Logan came along, but they do see significantly less of one another than they did before she gave birth. It's all just as well; Sparrow has a country to run and a son to raise while Reaver has…_Reaver things_ to do. Some of which are starting to intersect with her queenly duties.

Hence, her early afternoon time in the garden with Logan is interrupted.

She's been teaching him to walk on his own. He grasped the fundamentals of crawling and talking so quickly, he's still a bit wobbly when he stands by himself though. Not that he isn't being tenacious.

By the Light, she loves this little boy.

"Majesty, how radiant you are this morning! And his Royal Highness as well." She knows whose voice it is, of course, before she twists her head, a bit surprised to see him. It isn't that he's in the castle, but he prefers evenings for his visits and she doesn't think he's seen Logan since the boy was born. Whether that's respect for her wishes to raise him on alone (as alone as she can be with Marcella, Walter, Jasper, and an entire castle staff anyway) or detachment, that's Reaver's own affair.

"Thank you," she says scooping her son up and onto her hip. Gently, Sparrow nudges Logan to face Reaver. "Say 'thank you', darling." Even if present company might not often be worthy of it, she's teaching her boy respect. And, more importantly, never to cower; he's going to be a king one day, after all.

Logan's small jaw sets, as if he's intent on disobeying her, but a single raised eyebrow changes that inclination. A tiny "thank you" or something close to it comes out. Sparrow accepts it, for now. He'll have plenty of schooling on being clear when he's older.

Reaver bows as appropriate, his smirk never wavering. "You're most welcome."

"I take it you have something urgent that needs my attention?" Sparrow asks, adjusting Logan who has burrowed his face into her neck.

"Urgent might be a stretch but I would greatly appreciate a private audience," he says.

Sparrow nods, dislodging Logan delicately from her side. She settles him on the grassy patch that they'd been playing on. His blanket and a few toys are there including his favorite, Sir Bear, which he latches onto in her stead.

"Stay here." She cups his chin in one hand. "Don't wander off. You stay where I can see you, all right?" It's only a precaution; Logan is just about the best-behaved little boy she's ever known. And smart. He knows when his mother is being serious.

"Yes, Mummy," he murmurs.

Sparrow smiles and smooths his hair back as she presses a kiss his forehead. "Good boy. I'll be back very soon."

She turns and takes the arm that Reaver proffers her, glancing repeatedly back at her son as the other Hero leads her toward one of the nearby statues. Private but not so private that it looks overtly suspicious.

"What is it that you need?" she asks.

"Many things," he says, that telltale smirk lighting his eyes. "But I wouldn't overtax my dear queen. No, no, no. All that I need from you, Majesty, is a small consideration with a pet project of mine."

If it were a man other than Reaver, the way that Sparrow raises her eyebrow at him would send him running. It is Reaver, however, so nothing happens. "If this is an appeal for that little suggestion you made during the last court session, I am _still_ not allowing children in the factories. Or you to handle the orphanages."

"Crestfallen as I truly am about those rulings, living in the past isn't for me." With a flourish, he produces a paper from the inside of his jacket which he holds out toward her. Sparrow keeps her eyebrow up, but takes it.

It's a proposal for a series of high-end properties around Bower Lake. The land has, apparently, been acquisitioned by Reaver. It isn't one of his more devious looking plans at first glance, but since it's _him,_ Sparrow doesn't doubt at least a touch of darker intent lurking beneath.

"All right, so, what exactly is the appeal? Are you looking for an investment?"

"Only if you're offering, my Queen."

"No."

"Pity. Well, then, I shall continue with my original query."

"Which would be?" Impatience leaks into her voice. Queens don't get much personal time, especially Hero Queens, and time spent making sure Reaver isn't over-ravaging her kingdom is time taken away from Logan.

He rolls his eyes at her, almost fondly, as if the answer was obvious. "I'm informed by her Majesty's bureaucrats that I must wait for survey, inspection, and other such nonsense before I begin building which could take months. Since I've always been a loyal servant of the crown, I was hoping that you might flex your mighty influence to make an exception for me."

Sparrow laughs, unoffended as well as unconvinced. She knew he came here for some sort of self-service and honestly, she's surprised with the mundaneness of it. The last favor Reaver had tried to curry involved a flotilla of bordellos.

"You came to me to grease paper wheels for you?" she asks. "This could be solved with a bribe." It isn't as if she's advocating the practice, were it anyone else, Sparrow would throw them in the stockade to rot. But with Reaver, giving him leeway now and then on various disreputable points makes him toe the line far better than a clampdown ever would. Hence, he bribes rather than murders when there's a chance Sparrow would catch wind of it.

He sighs dramatically, playing with the cuff of his lambskin glove. "I may or may not have slept with the official in question's wife, daughters, sons, and mistress all in one go."

Another laugh. "Poor fellow."

"Indeed. I would have been happy to let him join in, had he come along earlier."

The witty reply blossoming on Sparrow's tongue dies away at the look on her companion's face. Reaver's eyebrows have drawn down at something over her shoulder. She turns at the same time he reaches out to make her turn, keeping his gloved hand on her waist after.

There's no need to point or speak, she sees what caught his eyes at once. Logan with the help of Sir Bear, is standing. All wobbly knees and inelegant teetering at first, he manages quite valiantly to rise and put one foot forward. His round arms wave, frantic like a bird's, as the other foot follows and again, and again, until they have a pace. It's about as coordinated a pace as drunkard's would be but that doesn't stop Sparrow's heart from damn near exploding when he closes the slight distance between them, catching himself on the hem of her skirt.

"Mummy, up!" he demands, tugging at the pale blue materiel.

Wonder thaws to exuberant pride and Sparrow immediately complies.

"Oh, look at you!" She scoops Logan into her arms, tossing him once in the air and then spinning around. "You wonderful thing you!" Her boy giggles and squirms as she presses kiss after kiss to any part of him she can reach.

Facing Reaver again, Sparrow reckons that she's grinning like fool. She might be crying as well, but she doesn't care one little bit.

"He did it," she says, as if Reaver had not been there the entire time as well. "He finally walked."

There's no overflow of satisfaction or any sort of emotion that comes from Reaver. He doesn't have the feelings that normal living humans do; Sparrow has known that since they met so long ago. He has a semblance, though, something that passes enough to say that he's trying; Sparrow has always been able to verify the sincerity of that semblance.

She sees it now as he tips his hat to Logan and offers a pleasant-enough, "Indeed. Well done, your Royal Highness."

It's the one milestone that they're both present for in Logan's life, and one of a surprising amount of things concerning Reaver that Sparrow never comes to regret.

**6.**

Royal balls are endlessly boring but Sparrow finds a little bit of tolerance for Masques. Mostly because they're far more relaxed than the usual courtly affairs. Tonight, is six-year-old Logan's first, which makes it particularly memorable. The Royal family comes as the Hours. Marcella is Dawn, all in soft pinks, yellow, and white, with rose gold and pearls woven into her hair. In contrast, Sparrow is Dusk, draped in purple blues with crystals in her black tresses to mimic the encroaching night sky. Logan, between them, is Day represented by bright blues, white, and luminous yellow-gold. He's a very good boy for the party, never pulling at his costume and politely dancing with the few noble girls around his age who've attended with their parents. Sparrow rewards his good behavior by sending him to bed early; which really means his nanny has instructions to give him a bath then let him read as late as he wants with as much cookies and milk as he wants. Just this once.

He kisses her cheek and Marcella's when she dismisses him, eyes alight with gratitude; he doesn't even forget to bow to the rest of the party as Genevieve (his nanny) takes his hand. Every mother thinks that she has the sweetest little boy in all the world. Sparrow is no exception.

The other children are sent from the party after Logan, their parents following her example. It leaves the adults to less inhibited revelry now that they don't have to set an example for anyone. A little more wine in everyone's cups gives Sparrow the opportunity to escape herself.

It's only for a bit, she tells herself as she makes her way into the quiet sanctuary of the garden, far from the din of laughing nobles. Like Logan, Sparrow has behaved well and has earned a small indulgence. Her son gets his books and cookies, _she_ gets solitude.

For a moment, at least. She hears Reaver's footsteps not long after she's made it to the farthest balcony, the one that overlooks the Old Quarter. As always, she knows that it's him even before the hum of his chuckle or the pressure of his hand on her waist.

Night is Reaver's costume; dark blue and black trimmed with silver. It suits him, though there is very little that doesn't suit Reaver.

"How naughty of you," he whispers as if they're conspirators. "Leaving your own party. Very unqueenly."

"They're drunk enough to let it go," she whispers back with a grin.

"Ah, but what if I told on you?" His satin-clad fingers tip-toe their way up her bare back. Sparrow leans into his touch, tilting her head just enough to bite the underside of Reaver's chin. A soft hiss comes, just for her.

"Tattling on the Queen is treason," she informs him. "And also a silly move when you committed your own party transgression by arriving so unfashionably late."

She's pressed between Reaver and the balcony now, thigh to thigh, both of his hands knead the swell of her hips while she drapes her arms about his neck. "I knew that Her Majesty would be occupied for most of the night dancing with a prince. What competition am I to that?"

"None," she answers honestly. Logan is more important to Sparrow than anything else in this world, including the man who helped to create him. Reaver knows that just as she knows that he isn't to be trusted. There's a great intimacy in such truth, one that Sparrow can never fully unravel. She doesn't need to unravel, though, she only needs to kiss back when Reaver's lips touch hers, and feel.

She never makes it back to the party. They have at each other once in the garden then slip off to the room just above that Sparrow always keeps spare for nights like these. Their costumes are ruined by the time that the next day breaks.

**7.**

"I am utterly disappointed in you, young man."

As much as Sparrow loves her son, she is not a mother who coddles. Marcella, Jasper, Genevieve, and even Walter cosset their "little prince". Sparrow is far more invested in raising him. That includes taking him to task when he behaves in a way that shames his position. Like punching Daniel Silsbee in the face.

He usually does so well at parties, a perfect little gentleman. In nine years, the most she's ever had to reprimand Logan over was how he neglected his swordplay practice. He prefers his books, chess set, and learning political politesse from Marcella to anything with actual combat. She's grateful of that, really, a smart boy is preferable to a hellion, but he's a prince and a prince who can't raise a sword will be a king that can't control a country.

But that is irrelevant at the moment. Logan's violent outburst at the Spring Garden Party is what concerns Sparrow now.

She sweeps forward, arms crossed. "Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"

He looks away, his already thin face pinched. Brown eyes, just like hers, just like Rose's, burn holes into his bedroom carpet. Nine-years-old and he stonewalls better than most adults do. She conveniently blames Reaver for that.

Just as Sparrow is about to storm out, she hears, "He called me a bastard."

That makes her start, to say the least. Just as the hurt simmering in her son's dark eyes does. Logan doesn't cry, not since he was a baby and even then, it was purely functional. Here he is now; lower lip trembling as the rest of his red face fiercely attempts to repress it.

"What?" Sparrow imagines she looks and sounds like an idiot when she says that. She can't say she isn't an idiot, though. This wasn't a conversation she ever even thought of even though logic dictates that she should have.

That hurt in Logan's eyes twists to rage and he pushes at her waist as the tears start spilling. "A bastard! He called me a bastard, Mother! He and all of those halfwits! They said that you and Mama were jumped-up commoner slattern and that I didn't have a father! They laughed at me! At _us_!"

She stares down at him for a few moments, lips frozen in a soft "O". Then, slowly, she kneels until they're at eye level, or at least fairly close to it. Even on her knees she's got a head above her young son.

"Logan…" Her throat sticks as she searches for the words she (irrationally) never considered before. Briefly, Sparrow clenches her eyes shut, cursing her own selfish part in all of this.

She lets him finish crying first, holding him tight until his breath is deep and even again. Then she dries his eyes with the silk sleeve of her gown.

"You are _not_ a bastard," she tells him. "Marcella and I are your parents and we are married."

"But—"

"Tell me the definition of a bastard."

He swallows hard but obeys. He's so much calmer now that he's wept. "A child born out of wedlock. _But two women can't make a baby_!" The last sentence is tacked on furiously. Fearfully.

"No, they cannot," she agrees. "But they can decide to make a baby with a man and raise it together. Or to adopt. That makes their children neither bastards nor orphans."

"But who did you make me with?" he persists, desperation clawing at every inch of his pale face. His small hands grip the arms of her dress so tightly that she feels the silk straining at its seams. "_Who_ is my father?"

Guilt gnaws her rib bones and sups upon her heart. _This_ is the crux of her boy's rage, this question she overlooked in some great naïveté of her plans.

Cupping his face in her hands, Sparrow kisses both of Logan's eyes. "Darling, the man who made you with me is _not_ your father. He's nothing to us and never will be."

It isn't all a lie. Not really. Well, to Sparrow Reaver is…something. She can't name it, exactly but they are connected. That connection has nothing to do with her son. To Logan, Reaver is a face at court, one that, by all appearances, only annoys his mother during open audiences, and that is all.

Sparrow takes another breath. "Listen; what matters, Logan, is that you're loved more than you would ever believe. Certainly more than those little monsters who dared to try and use the sorts of things which you can't control to hurt you."

He smiles at that, faintly. Sadness lingers in his eyes yet but it's paler, more acceptable. Sparrow still wishes to eradicate it completely. Even Heroes don't have that sort of power though.

She smooths his hair back and kisses his nose before she stands. "You're going to be a king one day, Logan. The Silsbee boy and his ilk are your people and you are to protect them just as you might beggars and Nanny Genevieve. That's part of the crown's weight."

He sighs, looking more like her than he ever has in his young life, poor darling "Yes, Mother." She laughs and kisses his nose one more time.

"Punishment is combat training with Walter for two-weeks. _At_ _dawn_."

Logan groans but doesn't protest.

"And I," she continues with a conspiratorial smirk, "am going to go join your other mother and together she and I will ask Lord Silsbee where his son might have gotten the presumption to treat the heir to the throne with such disrespect over tea. It will be a long tea, I think. Marcella has wanted to go over the rental fees to his estate for some time. Today is as good a day as any for that sort of business."

A grin brighter than the sun lights up the room and Logan throws his arms about her waist.

Coddling is not something that Sparrow does, no. Not a bit. Now defending her child with the fury of a swamp troll? That goes without saying.

**8.**

Reaver's "pet project" Millfields, is actually quite impressive. She can see much of the nobility vying for one of the sumptuous cottages that decorate the lakeside and he's no doubt going to stack the prices just for them. _If_ he can get the little bandit problem that's stopping the construction of everything under control of course.

Sparrow agrees to help him in return for two things. The first is that he stops proposing brothels every time that he comes to court. The second is that he has to go with her and put in half the work. If she's going to be away from Logan, then Reaver has to be away from whatever occupies him.

"Come on," she says as they leave the bandits camp. "Admit it; that was fun. You love killing things."

Reaver, who was standing far too close to a brute that she rent to pieces with a blast of lightning, glares and continues to fruitlessly rub human fluid from the handle of his precious Dragonstomper .48. His bad mood only brightens hers; funny how that works. She's practically skipping back toward the lake.

"You did it on purpose," he grouses like a child. "And why are you going back down there? Civilization is the _other_ way."

"Because I want to," Sparrow all but sings. It's a little cruel how she enjoys this; usually vexed but along for the ride describes _her_ in their whatever-you-might-call-it. She puts all of the blame on the midsummer heat. Everything is green, fresh, and alive and Bower Lake is beautiful. How can she possibly manage to feel anything but happy today?

Her intent, at the lakeside, is to splash a little water on her face, clean up her gear, then head back into town. As soon as she gets within twenty feet of that perfect, crystal blue reflection however, she has to swim.

"What on earth are you doing?" Reaver asks as she unlaces her shirt and tosses it down with her vest, gloves, and weapons. Intrigue colors the irritated tone and she feels his eyes sliding down her backbone.

"Swimming," she says as she kicks off her boots. "Do not steal, hide my clothes, or allow anything otherwise unseemly happen to them. Seriously. I will invoke treason so fast that the Shadow Court will cry."

She continues to undress, discarding her breeches and small clothes in quick succession. Pulling the tie from her braid—it's going to get wet anyway—Sparrow makes her way to a rocky outcropping and dives in.

The water is much less inviting than it looks. It's cold. _Very_ cold. But luckily, she was very hot and is full of Hero blood, so she can stand it. Mostly. She still surfaces swearing like a dockworker.

"Shit! Shit! Fuck! _Shit_!"

Reaver cackles. "Oh, are the waters not as pleasant as they looked, Majesty?"

"Why don't you find out for yourself?" she counters, pushing herself up just enough for her breasts to rise clear above the surrounding water. Sparrow sticks her tongue out for good measure then dives back down, intent on exploring one of the tiny islands that pepper the lake. The scent of roses is coming from there and she does love roses.

They're wild roses, white on the inside with blood red edges. She can't quite remember but they might have grown on the family farm. Sparrow closes her eyes and falls back on a soft patch of grass next to the rose bush.

It never doesn't ache to remember her old life; she will always miss her sister. But it's easier now. She can never replace Rose, but having new people, Marcella, Walter, Jasper, and especially Logan, helps so much.

Rose would have loved Logan as much as she does, maybe even more.

She doesn't notice Reaver until his shadow falls across her, blocking her sunlight. Sparrow cracks an eye. He's fully clothed, soaked to the bone, but now there's no bits of people stuck to his nice tailored shirt.

"You look like a drowned rat," she teases even as she reaches to pull him down. He lets her, surprisingly, and she rewards the acquiescence by straddling his lap and undoing that silly cravat he insists on wearing.

"And you—Ah!—" He jerks when her teeth skim his pulse point. "_You_ do not look like a queen right now."

Sparrow shrugs. "Well, I don't feel like a queen right now." She pulls his vest open, pushing it down his shoulders until the fabric catches at his elbows, locking his arms.

He raises an eyebrow, that rotten smirk that she's so used to finally reappearing. "Oh? And what do you feel like then?"

Sliding one hand up his neck, Sparrow grips the side of Reaver's face, fingers curling into the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. She pulls his head back, firmly not roughly, and lowers her face to his, so that their lips brush when she speaks.

"I feel like a woman who's going to fuck you senseless right here, right now."

Reaver doesn't say anything; he's too busy kissing her.

They've coupled more times than Sparrow could count of if she ever deigned to try. She knows his body and he knows hers, but something today feels different. Call it the heat, the scent of roses, the fight. Sparrow's blood is singing in her veins and it calls to his and Reaver responds like a fever.

She forgets much in the long hours spent on that grassy islet. For a brief speck of time she's only Sparrow again, and the crown—and all of the crushing weight that comes with it—is far, far from her. Her senses are clogged by Reaver and that's…_good_. Surprisingly, wonderfully, intoxicatingly good.

There is one thing Sparrow takes back with her from that hazy afternoon; her daughter, though she won't discover that for a few more weeks.


End file.
